


Thicker Than Mud

by Dunaven



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Claire is a Winchester, F/M, Family Dynamics, Incest, M/M, More Incest, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21594847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dunaven/pseuds/Dunaven
Summary: Sam's having trouble starting a family. He doesn't need therapy to find out he's got serious daddy issues.
Relationships: Sam/Eileen, Sam/John
Comments: 37
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Family Affair by Sly and the Family Stone**

_ It's a family affair, it's a family affair _

_ It's a family affair, it's a family affair _

_ One child grows up to be _

_ Somebody that just loves to learn _

_ And another child grows up to be _

_ Somebody you'd just love to burn _

_ Mom loves the both of them _

_ You see it's in the blood _

_ Both kids are good to Mom _

_ "Blood's thicker than mud" _

_ It's a family affair, it's a family affair _

_ Newlywed a year ago _

_ But you're still checking each other out _

_ Nobody wants to blow _

_ Nobody wants to be left out _

_ You can't leave, 'cause your heart is there _

Sam rolls into his back, coughing and spewing apologies from his rapidly closing throat. His mouth gapes, pulse rises. Eileen’s tiny hands cautiously, uselessly pat his chest. 

She’s comforting him, even though he keeps letting her down. By now, she must think Sam is faking this reaction. Who ever heard of a man allergic to sex? He’s suffered this response often enough to warrant that diagnosis.

Slowly, gradually, he maintains his composure and has only the ache and no more spasms to choke off his breath.

Cold, clammy and emotionally spent, he throws an arm over his face.

“Sam, I think—”

“Yeah. I know.”

A promise is a promise. 

***

Sam’s smile is a lie. It’s difficult to be sincere when people are talking like you aren’t in the room.

“It’s never been… I mean, I wouldn’t say frequent.”

Eileen squeezes his hand between hers and speaks. Across the expensive mahogany desk, the therapist nods. Dr. Novak doesn’t seem to have a hard time with her accent. 

“What about you, Mr. Winchester? How would you characterize the frequency of intercourse before you began trying for a family?”

Eileen and Novak await an answer. Sam is studying the good doctor’s plaques. They’ve tried every damn thing else: oysters, ginseng  
Pills from China that are supposed to be powdered goat testicles, according to the description on Amazon. Extra potant.

The last thing Sam wants is a trained professional poking around in his mind. The only worse thing is the look on his wife’s face when he can't achieve or maintain an erection long enough to even penetrate her. 

“Mr. Winchester?”

“Not frequent.”

Once or twice a month. Eileen always initiated. He used to be able to perform.

Ellen can’t hear the obnoxious scribble of pen on a legal pad. The Muzak in the waiting room hadn’t irritated her, neither had the barely audible chatter of the other couples.

There were times Sam would have gladly traded his hearing ears for hers. But her eyes works great. She reads lips as well as Dostoyevsky.

“How long have you been trying?”

“Um, about a year,” she says. “Is that about right, honey?”

Her chair is scooted as close as it can go without stacking them and climbing into his lap.

A year sounds right. Sure, a year. Let’s go with that. 

And while they’re counting, Sam ticks off the five dollars and 56 cents per minute sitting in this room. Money they don’t have. But still less than they’ll spend if this works.

The current cost of raising a child is a quarter million dollars. More if they attend college. Sam likes kids as much as the next person... 

No, that isn’t true. Children terrify him. The smaller the scarier. Newborns are horrendous.

“Do you want to weigh in on that, Mr Winchester?”

“Uh…” Sam searches Eileen’s face for clues. “Can you repeat the question?”

“Your wife says that you’ve been estranged from your family of origin since college.”

Strap in, folks. Here we go.

Sam says, “That’s correct.”

“Well, that seems like an appropriate place to start.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m not going to talk about my family.”

Dr. Novak puts down his pen, plucks his glasses from his nose and folds them. Preparing for battle.

“Mr Winchester, I’m sure you can see that your relationship with your parents is relevant when you’re planning to become a father. Especially with the challenges you’ve been having.”

“It is not relevant. My… ED is because of my... current employment situation,” Sam explains. “56 percent of men suffer erectile dysfunction in relation to professional and economic pressures. You should ask about that.”

“I know of the statistics. It says here that you attended Stanford pre-law.”

“He had a full scholarship,” Eileen adds though no one asked her.

Sam blinks.

“And that your most recent job was … dog walker.”

Novak tries to be matter of fact, but the question is implied.

How did Sam fuck up that good thing? It’s a good story, actually...

But their time is coming to a close. Dr. Novak only needs glance at his watch once. It’s a plain as ASL.  
This whole thing is a racket. Eileen doesn’t understand that because she is a kind, trusting soul. These therapists bring you in, drag out conversations over months, and years, and decades. You get nowhere, except deeper in debt.

“Let me ask you this, Mr Winchester. Has this been an issue in past relationships?”

Sam answers, “Occasionally.”

Every single one

“And are you able to maintain an erection during masterbation?”

Sam makes a swift calculation. Will the truth hurt his wife?

“Sometimes.”

Not consistently.

Dr. Novak stands. “We can sort this out, Mr. Winchester. I’ve got a 78 percent success rate using hypnosis. Perhaps we can talk about that next time.”

He shakes Ellen’s hand. Sam is already halfway to the door. He’ll die before he lets this man or anyone else mesmerize him. Not because it’s the work of a charlatan, but because it works.

***  
  
Who can get off to the smell of artificial air freshener?  
Sam flips through a magazine. None of the images is quite to his taste, but whatever. A vial of semen.

He can do this.

He chooses a blonde on a mountain tending goats, breasts spilling from her leather dirndl. Freaky. 

Sam squirts a bit of lubricant into his palm. High end stuff. Studies the bottle. Memorizes the brand. Puts it down. Could never afford it. Just like they can’t afford IVF, but here he is.

“All right, Heidi.”

Sam strokes himself. A little harder. Getting there.  
Winces at that sickening sound of wet skin on skin.  
Thwap, thwap, thwap.  
Getting there

He can produce a vial of semen. No one watching or waiting. No Eileen beneath him with that hopeful, patient expression. Eileen, with her fertility app and her thermometer. God. How is anybody supposed to perform under that kind of pressure?

But this. This’ll work. No problem  
Thwap thwap. Come on, Heidi.   
She’s hot, right?  
Or better to flip over to an ebony? Something more exotic? Latin chicks are nice.  
Thwap thwap 

Sam’s breath comes faster and louder in the small, sterile stall. Getting there.

He can produce a vial of semen  
What he can’t do is afford IVF  
A credit card? Is she crazy?

Just do this. They’ll worry about the details later. Just prove to himself that he can produce —

A vision glimmers behind Sam’s eyelids, as vivid as if he were back in that room: 

a huge, hairy ass fucking against a dresser, so hard it knocks the walls. Hungry bear grunts as pounds the pale, bottom beneath him. Hairless legs. Small feet on tiptoes.

Sam’s throat closes, as if there’s a fist around his larynx. He sputters and gasps for air. Covered in an icy sheen, tongue coated with bile, he drops his limp prick and stumbles against the nearest wall.

***

He calls Eileen from the freeway. She’s at work. Can’t take calls when you’re on the clock at CVS. He leaves a message.

“I… uh… I got to... got to do this. I’m sorry.”

Now, he’s fucking stuttering again. Great.

Sam drops the phone in the passenger seat, next to the Glock 43.

Got to do this.

Should have done it 18 years ago. Should have done it before he left. After twenty hours of driving, he’s got a quarter tank of gas, $17 dollars in his bank account and 5612 dale avenue Lawrence, Kansas in his sights. 

The house hasn’t changed: an American nightmare, minus the picket fence.

Sam is a trembling, sweat-damp mess, but he’ll be all right soon. Happiness is the cold gun he’s cradling in his lap. 


	2. Chapter 2

The key beneath the flowerpot on the front porch is rusty, but it’s still there. What else around here hasn’t changed?

Sam wields it cautiously, turning the knob and creeping inside like a professional burglar. If he expected resistance, he enters instead, to the mouthwatering aroma of Mary Winchester’s Southwest chili. Unless something has changed, it smells better than it tastes. His mother was never much of a cook and it’s been nearly twenty years. His eyes flood anyway.

And there she is, at the kitchen sink, with a halo of sunlight pouring through the window like an advertisement for maternal purity and decency. 

At this very table, sat a gawky 8-year-old Sam, inhaling homemade chili as if it could cleanse his soul from the relentless torture of blacktop tyrants. Here, he’d complete homework, applications and essays. And here, he’d opened the Stanford acceptance letter that was his ticket out of this meticulously disinfected hellhole.

Locks of silver streak among Mary’s shoulder-length golden waves. She turns with a start, clutching her chest when she sees him. Recognition flashes across her face: wide eyes, mouth in a dainty O.  
With a squeal, she dashes across the floor, crashing against Sam’s chest, small and yet sturdy.

It’s been so long that her affections feel false. Foreign. He began in college to tell the tale of a family who burned to a crisp in a house fire. Only Eileen had ever prized the truth from him in a fluke fit of whiskey and tears. Much of the truth, though, not most of it. 

The Winchester clan is alive and well in the pit of America’s breadbasket. Little Sammy is home, but not to roost. He stares down as if his mother is a changeling, but her only fault was in marrying a devil. 

When Sam might have told his mother everything, he extricated himself instead. He’d never looked back, on pain of becoming salt.

Speak of the fiend, colonel John Winchester enters the kitchen in a navy blue workman’s suit. He’s been romancing a vehicle. That was a favored pastime already in Sam’s youth. His father and brother vanishing into the garage for hours, returning with grease-covered and with an empty six-pack.

John’s stubble is a swirl of snow and grit. His eyes are dark as ever.

At first, the old man’s face knots his thick brow at the sight of his wife in another man’s arms. A man as tall, if not as heavy as he. Slowly, his chin rises toward the ceiling. He exhales loudly and shakes his head. 

“You know, there’s no cash in the house.”

“Johnny!”

Now.   
The Glock is cold, heavy and waiting. This bastard’s skull is waiting, too, for a brand new hole. If Sam had come here for money, he’d rob John Winchester before asking for it.

He’s driven all this way without sleep, with one act on his mind. Only one thing delays the meting out of his swift, hard justice.

“How’s Dean? And Claire.” Sam asks.

“Oh, they’re well,” his mother proclaims. “Your brother’s an engineer, now. Married a journalist. Has the most adorable family. Six children. Can you believe it?”

“Always working on the next one,” John adds.

“And Claire is almost finished her PhD. in Mesopotamian studies. Dean thinks she’ll go overseas for a while. She’s seeing a very nice young lady, but it’s hard to tell how serious it is. And you, Sam? Did you marry?”

He doesn’t blame Jessica or Madison for the divorces. Eileen must be the charm. That’s what they say about the third time.

“Can you call them?” Sam asks. “Get them to come here? Now.”

“Who? Everyone? The kids?”

“Just Claire and Dean. Tell them it’s an emergency.”

“Well, I’ll tell them you’re here and they’ll drop whatever they’re doing.” Mary is already moving toward the landline that they still have hanging from the kitchen wall. “This is such a godsend, Sam. We’ll sit down and have dinner, like a real family again.” 

Sam doesn’t contradict his mother. 

Twenty minutes later, DeanWinchester enters the house. He’s aged remarkably, like a fine wine. Smooth-shaven and in a pale blue tailored suit. He claps once and laughing, takes Sam into a warm embrace.

“Man, you look like ZZTop.” Dean claps Sam’s shoulder. “Don’t smell too hot, though. Somebody, get this man a shower!”

“Sam, do you want—”

“No, thank you, Mom.”

“Sammy, I haven’t seen you in 20 years and it’s a solemn, joyous occasion,” Dean says. “I need you not to smell like a homeless person. Jesus. Are you homeless?”

Dean talks like he knew what homeless is. He looks like one of those guys who cross the street to avoid dropping a dime in an outstretched styrofoam cup. Sam has lived in shelters a few times between wives. Currently, he splits the rent in Eileen’s aunts basement studio. So, no. He’s not homeless. 

“Ma, you still got some of his old clothes?” Dean asks, looking Sam over with a smirk. “Just as skinny as ever, aren’t ya?”

“Of course, Ido,” their mother replies.

“No doubt, saved for such an occasion.” 

It’s clear that Dean is as fond of himself as ever. That’s plain in his asshole grin. Sam used to break his neck looking up to his brother. What sport hadn’t he played? What cheerleader hadn’t he screwed? That he settled on one, even if only in name, is a miracle.

To pass the time until his sister arrives (not to appease his jerk brother) Sam takes a shower and changes into his high school sweat-shirt and a pair of sweats that are snug, but still fit. There’s a desk in his old room, but the bed is also still there. There’s still a Carl Sagan Cosmos poster on the wall. 

“What did I tell you,” Dean says when Sam returns to the living. “Skinny as a snake.”

They’ve all got drinks now, as this is happy hour at some skuzzy lounge. Dean can only disparage Sam’s physique because he’s put on 50 lbs since he was in college - and in the best ways. Their little sister, Claire, has grown into a round-faced beauty with corn-silk curls rippling down her back. She one-arm hugs Sam politely, more like a stranger than a sibling. 

She was seven the last time she saw him. More than anything, over the years, Sam has been haunted by how his abandonment left her to the wolf. But what could he do? He had to save himself. Then, he was too chickenshit to return. Until now. 

Hopefully, somehow, she’ll forgive. 

“Claire, set the table, won’t you?” Their mother says.

“No.” Sam pulls his gun and levels it in the dead center of John Winchester’s astonished face.“Sit.”

The room sucks in a collective gasp.

“None of you have to worry. Just him,” Sam says. 

His nostrils are flaring, chest burning. For stability, he clasps his left hand over the shaking right. HIs aim is true. 

“I want you all to see it.”

“Dad?” Dean’s eyes dart back and forth, shoulders tight, fists curled. 

John Winchester shakes his head, raises his hands and sits on the sofa. Dean lunges and Sam directs the barrel at his chest. 

He hadn’t counted on anyone defending his father. How can Dean, of all people, take his side? Even Claire is breathing hard, hunched and dark-eyed like a serpent coiled to strike. Stockholm Syndrome.

“Sit down,” Sam says. “All of you. You know why I’m doing this. You know.”

Maybe Claire wasn’t old enough to recall the Menendez brothers trial. Those apparently pampered boys who slaughtered their parents after years of abuse. The others remember. John Winchester does.

Sam trains the weapon on his father’s unnervingly calm face. 

“Do you want to talk about this, son?”

“Shut up. No. You, shut up. You know why?”

John nods.

Is it really going to be this simple? Already the tears are snaking down Sam’s face. Dripping from his chin. His father is going to admit this shit out loud. He’s going to confess his filthy sins and Sam is going to send his sick ass to Hell.

“Say it!”

“Yes. I know why.”

Vindication.

“Confess.”

“Sam.”

“Don’t say my name. You keep my name off your tongue. Fucking… monster.”

John closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and begins:


	3. Chapter 3

“When your brother was born, he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

Sam looks at his brother. Even now, over 40, with the scruffy beard and the paunch, Dean is still one of the most beautiful people he’s ever seen. Some things don’t change.

“Your mother and I fell in love with him completely, instantly,” John continues. “Against doctor’s orders, he slept between us in the bed. Half the time we’d stay awake just staring at him.”

Mary smiles and nods fondly.

“At the time, we lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Kansas City. Mary, I’m just going to tell it as it happened, okay? No frills, no… ommissions.”

She nods again, but the smile has faded.

“One day, while your mother was nursing, I watched, just breathless. Once I got over how miraculous it was, I started shooting some photos. I’m not entirely sure how it happened, but the first time we ever made love with Dean, he was 6 months old.”

“What does that—” a swell of nausea crashes into Sam’s throat. “What are you saying?”

“He nursed while I pleasured your mother in other ways, but it was amazing… The three of us, connecting in ways that were just for our family.”

Mary doesn't deny. She only looks into her eldest son’s wide eyes. It’s clear from Dean’s expression that he’s never heard this story. Sam waits for his brother to snatch the gun and finish the job. Instead, he grabs their mothers hand and squeezes.

“I like to think I’m a good lover,” John says.

Claire nods. “You are, Dad.”

“But I’d never seen or heard your mother climax that way before.”

“Wow.” Dean sits on the sofa wearing a strange smile Sam wants to slap off his gorgeous face. “Go on, Dad.”

“It upsets your brother,” John says.

“Well, he’s not the only person here. Claire?”

“I want to hear,” she says, settles beside Dean, pulling his hand into her lap and entwining their fingers.

Sam, head swirling, room tilting, holds up the gun to remind that he could end them all.

It’s Mary’s turn to speak: “Your dad found an article about a man who trained himself to lactate. So he started to practice with Dean and while he did, I’d… pleasure him.”

“So, you used your baby as a sex toy,” Sam says, ready to blow off his own head to make the madness stop.

“It sounds that way and maybe it was at first, but Dean discovered his own pleasure soon enough. When he was 13 months, walking but still pre-verbal, he got an awful rash, so I’d let him go about without a diaper for most of the day. If you’ve ever seen the videos of the chimps masturbating, he was like that.”

Claire laughs.

Dean strikes a smug grin. “Actually, Mason was tugging his junk at eight months, so…”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” Claire says. “That kid always has his hands down someone’s shirt.”

“That’s my boy,” Dean crows.

Sam has never met any of his nieces and nephews and he’s feeling sicker by the moment.

“When’s the first time you fucked me, Dad?” Dean asks.

“You don’t remember?”

He shakes his head. Sam’s blood freezes, turning him into an upright catatonic.

“Well, we wanted to make sure you were ready for full penetration. That’s a huge leap from all the oral fun we were having,” John says. “There's not any literature on the best way to share sex with your kids, so we just let you lead. You’d watch us, of course, and by the time you were 4, were already fingering yourself, so we did, as well.  
Shortly after we brought Sam home from the hospital, you asked if I would ‘put it in you.’ Those were your exact words. It seemed early to me, but Mary said I should honor you and give it a try and… with a lot of patience, even more lube, I guess you were around five.”

“Wow.”

“Do you remember,” Mary asks, smiling. “How we’d lay Sam in the middle of the bed and let you crawl up and put your little penis in his mouth.”

“No. That’s hilarious.”

Sam isn’t responding anymore. He’s just barely breathing.

“We had to watch, because you were a wild little bugger back then.”

The whole family chuckles.

“But you never did anything that would hurt him. You’d even ask, ‘Do you like that, Sammy?’ and tell him you’d stop if he didn’t, just like we always did with you.”

“You know what I remember,” Dean says leaning forward with a grin. “I remember when I was in tenth grade, I used to be so horny all day. I’d slip into the boy’s room and jerk off, at least once a day. Then, I’d come home to this one…”

He smirks at his mom. Mary grins in return.

“She’d be in some tiny little shorts, cleaning the dishes or something. I’d trap her against the counter, press my dick to her ass, let her know how bad I needed it. You know what she’d say to me?”

John snickers. Claire shakes her head.

“Is that how you approach a lady?” Dean and Mary say in unison.

“Used to drive me so nuts,” he goes on. “She’d make me kiss her, work my way down, take my time, you know. I was leaking in my pants by the time she let me lean her over the table. God, mom. So hot.”

She chuckles.

“Then dad would come home late from work, and she’d be knocked out. So, he’d come in my room, put me in the same position. Those were some great days.”

“Do you remember when Claire was born?” John asks.

Dean replies, “Of course.”

“And how you insisted that you be her first?”

“I was what, 16 when she was born? I guess I figured you’d break her with that cattle prod, man.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to enter the newborn baby."

“You know the only time I worried for you all,” Mary says, suddenly somber. “When Claire was 12. Dean, you were in grad school.”

“Mom.” Claire rolls her eyes. “It’s over.”

“You have no idea how I feared we’d done everything wrong. That we’d ruined you.”

“I had cold feet, Ma,” Dean says.

“You were engaged to the most delightful girl, and you came to me to say that you’d fallen in love with your little sister.”

“I’m still in love with her.”

Claire nudges him with her knee. “It worked out, Mom. It’s fine.”

“When I told Cassie about us, about the way we love, I figured that was the end of it. It was like confessing that our family hunted ghosts for a living, or something psycho like that.”

“It is an unconventional lifestyle,” Claire says. "Most people wouldn't understand."

“She couldn’t take it at first.”

“That’s why I don’t tell people.”

“All’s well that—”

“What about me?” Sam’s voice breaks. He clears his throat and asks, “What did you do to me?”

They all look at him.

“Other than… let Dean…”

John and Mary exchange glances and she decides to take the lead. “We played with you. Of course, we did. And you loved everything, especially cunnilingus.”

“You were crazy about eating mom out. I remember that,” Dean says smiling.

Sam doesn’t even look at him.

“Said it tasted like—”

“Shut up!”

“But when you were 4 or so,” Mary says, perfectly calm. “We tried to initiate you with your dad’s penis, and you choked. You gagged and you cried for an hour. Wouldn’t be comforted. After that, we just decided family play wasn’t for you. You didn’t like it. And we left you out of it. Never loved you any less. Just—”

“Did Dean never choke?”

Dean, the perfect. Dean, the beautiful. Dean, strutting around like a rooster.

“Of course, he did,” John says. “But he’d laugh, or it would piss him off and he’d come back with double the intensity. Insisted he’d take the whole thing.”

“Which I can do now,” Dean boasts.

“Claire, too. She’d never let him outdo her.”

Sam covers his mouth, tears welling, chest aching. As he’s battling not to cry, Dean and Claire rush him at once. She wrenches back his thumb until he unhands the gun. Dean muscles him into the nearest closet, the one full of coats and boots.

“Don’t hurt him!” Mary shouts.

Sam nearly shoves his way back out, until John adds his bulk to the outside and the door slams closed.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam is no small man and there is not enough room for him in here with all these winter things. Scrunched in among the trench coats, parkas, and snow boots, he thrashes and groans, flailing until his fists find the door.

“Let me out of here! Dean? Mom?”

He pounds a shoulder against the wood. Finds the knob and turns. It gives an inch and then slams shut again. They might have leaned something against it, although there would have been the loud commotion of furniture moving and there hasn’t been time for that. No. They’re standing there, Dean and his father, holding it shut.

“You fucking…”

He bangs louder with both fists, slams his body against it until his shoulder is on the painful verge of dislocating. Aching, sweating and exhausted, Sam leans back on the wall and slumps to the floor, dragging items off their hangers until he’s covered and surrounded by layers of overwarm clothes. Strangely comforting, like the dark heat in a cocoon.

It’s the perfect environment to rest his face on his knees and give up. If he could die, he would.  
There is nothing good or decent worth living for out there. It’s a good thing Sam has been impotent. It would be a sin to bring new life into this cesspool of a world. His mother is a filthy, disgusting animal, just as unforgivable as his father. By Sam’s calculations, if they’d stopped including him when he was 4, he’d never ‘done anything’ with Claire. That was 7 years before she was born. But then, by the same rudimentary math, Dean was old enough and had been sleeping with their mother…

Thinking makes Sam nauseous again. He moans like a wounded beast and digs his fists into his eye sockets. A modern Oedipus, he’d have to lobotomize himself, scoop his brains out with a spoon to be rid of this scum.

But then, could his siblings be blamed? They were children, born into this madness, indoctrinated to evil. The bigger question now was could they be saved? Dean had how many kids?  
One was too many, if he was touching them this way. He’d told his wife? And she was on board? It seems impossible, even for that charmer to convince someone of that. But were they still at it, Dean, Claire, his parents? The way they’d held hands and gazed at each other.

Is this why Sam has been ruined all these years?  
Of course, it is. Childhood sexual trauma. It's like he’d always known, only far worse. That memory of his father grunting, leaned over a desk of a dresser with skinny, pale legs beneath him while he rutted like a grizzly in heat. It must have been Dean. The point of view made sense. Sam was small, looking up at it, not on the receiving end, but suffering all the same. Thinking his brother was being hurt.  
And wasn’t he? Wasn’t their father a child rapist? And their mother, too. If the authorities had gotten even a whiff, Sam and his siblings would have been stripped away. He’d have gotten the . therapy back when it could have helped. He’d have a family of his own. Not this dirty burden.

The combined stress of his nearly stopless drive, the talk, the scuffle and fruitless fight to escape the coat closet make sleep inevitable as it is fitful.

Hours later, when Sam awakens, it’s in a daze. For just one blessed moment, he doesn’t know where he is or why.  
It all floods back, along with a mighty urge to piss. Cumbersome in the dark and under all those clothes, he scrambles to his knees and begins pounding the door again, bellowing:

“Let me out. I have to piss. Dean?”

Why is he calling Dean? His father is the ringleader, right? Or was Dean the demon baby who came home from the hospital and led the young couple into temptation?

“Open the fucking door!”

Much longer and he’ll wet himself. It would be wierd torture befitting this day. In a last-ditch effort for freedom, Sam turns the knobs, digs in his shoulder and spills out onto the floor, cushioned by the coats and jackets.

It’s dark in the house. And silent.

Could they have left? Dean has a family to go home to. Claire has - whatever she has. If only his parents remain, Sam could take them.  
Take them where? What does he want to do? He’s lost the gun. Hasn’t much will to fight. Just wants to go home and lay in Eileen’s arms, cry on her chest until he’s desiccated and hollow.

Slowly, painfully, he climbs to his knees, wades through the winter clothes. His eyes have adjusted well enough to the dark to grope around the kitchen counter for his keys. He finds and pockets them. A quick glance around before he pulls down his gym shorts and pees in the sink. It’s gross, but he’s got to get out of here. Besides, who is his mother to judge?

Relieved - at least physically - he creeps through the lightless room, to the hall. The front door is in sight when a cruel twinge strikes his chest. As awful as this place is and despite the horrors that happened here, it was home once. John and Mary were his parents - or at least they used to be - before these revelations. Sam is an orphan again. He’ll never say their names again. Forever dead in his mind. In that way, this journey was a success.

On his way, plodding to the door, a shadow knocks him from his feet. They hit the ground hard, Sam vaguely registering that the other body is hot and nude. The air is thick with the funk of sex.

“Where you going, bro?”

“Dean, get off me.”

“Can’t do that.” It sounds almost like he’s laughing as they wrestle. “Can’t let you leave here in that state of mind.”

It’s practically a confession. So, Dean is touching his kids. If Sam leaves with what he knows, he could go to the cops, blow the lid off this thing, have them all locked up. He hadn’t thought of it - had just wanted to get away - but now, rolling on the freezing tile with his insane brother, it’s clear what he has to do. 

Dean had the advantage of surprise, but Sam has weight and rage on his side. He quickly turns Dean onto his back, straddling his stomach because that’s just how they land. He can just barely make out where Dean’s face is, well enough to throw a punch and make it connect with a crunch. 

“Hey!” Dean clutches his face.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Sam yells, short of breath and pummeling his brother’s chest, hard enough to shatter the ribs. “How could you think this was okay?”

Sam’s fists are raining along with his fit of tears when another body crashes into him, knocks him to the floor beside Dean. It’s their father and he’s not dressed either. His erection presses against Sam’s thigh - infuriating enough to make him scream as he struggles. Then another body joins the fray, and another - softer, but strong. Within a matter of seconds, they’ve got him on his stomach, roaring and fighting in vain like an elephant felled for its tusk.

“Oh god, please.”

A random image flashes behind his eyes -from a documentary of a ritual sacrifice, a goat penned down, its throat sliced open while a Voudon priest recited ancient rites. So far as Sam knows, his family is Episcopal, but what kind of Christians screw their kids?

He screams.

“Would you shut up?” It’s Claire who says that and slaps him.

Sam’s mother is sitting on his ankles. Her warm, damp cunt holding him down. It's probably her hands gently kneading the backs of his thighs. “Not so rough, Claire.”

His sister’s hand closes around the back of his neck, nails digging in slightly, but she doesn’t strike him again. Her body is laid out over his left arm, pinning it at an awkward angle and rendering it completely immobile.

“Get the fuck off me,” Sam repeats for the hundredth time, losing conviction along with his breath.

“Just relax, buddy,” his father says.

The low rumble of that voice near his ear gives him new strength to fight, but it doesn’t change the hopelessness of his predicament. They’ll kill him and put the meat in some chili and invite the church folk over for a backyard barbecue. It’ll be better attended than any other funeral in Sam’s honor. He has no friends. No connection. Is on the edge of losing Eileen. These freaks might as well kill him and offer his blood to Baal or whatever the hell psycho shit they’re into. Fighting anymore will just prolong the inevitable.

“That’s it. Be cool, you crazy fucker,” Dean says. “He broke my fucking nose.”

“Are you all right?” their mother asks, her tone warm and caring as if she weren’t helping the rest of her family commit a capital crime. “Do you need the hospital?”

“No. We’re doing this.”

Sam braces himself. Unafraid of death. Had thought of ending himself more than once. Had never dreamed it would be his own family to do it. Even now, tears squeeze from the corner of his shut eyes as a broad hand spreads over his spine, heavy and final. This is it.  
Will they slit his throat like that goat, or stab him in the base of his spine, or something more vicious and strange? He puts nothing past their collective imagination.

Another hand strokes his hair as if he were a skittish cat. One of the men is on his back, the other on his arm. It’s hard to tell them apart. Only knows they’re bulkier than the women and that his right arm is going numb. Won’t matter long.

“That’s it,” Dean whispers. “Just relax. This doesn’t have to hurt.”

Then, there’s a kiss. Unmistakable by the sound, right by his ear.

“It'll be so good.”

His father hums in agreement and his mother…  
Her kneading deepens and she begins to rock back and forth over his ankles and heels… pleasuring herself?

Sam wants to beg her to stop but to open his mouth and acknowledge it would be to admit that it’s happening. Then, he’d have to admit to himself that there’s a - well, it has to be a dick, doesn’t it? - Being rubbed over his lower back.

Claire is wriggling, too, her crotch sopping over the back of his hand as she moans. They’re all moaning. It’s a symphony of sick sick groans while Dean mumbles, “Do it, Dad.”

What is it their dad is meant to do?

Sam is only sure that it’s John on his back and it's Dean who won't stop kissing him. Sam’s cheek at first, his temple. Murmuring psychotic things like, “Hey, baby. It’s going to feel amazing. I promise. This is what you need.”

“Stop it. Dean. Please.”

Sam’s voice is quiet and unconvincing even to himself. The predicament is so dizzyingly impossible that he can barely catch his breath.

“It’s all right, Sammy. We’re going to take good care of you.”

Dean’s voice, the smack of his kisses, the wet drag of his tongue over Sam’s lips is so loud that he just barely registers the movement behind him. His mother shifting aside as his father scoots down. Hands, more than two, maybe four, pulling him apart. Exposing him where nobody ought to ever touch.

“What is…”

“Relax, son.”

“NO. NO! Get off me. Let me go!!”

The fresh burst of fight is quickly quelled when a tongue - what else could it be? - laves from taint to spine. Sam’s body goes rigid with thrill and horror he’s never felt. Who was that? Whose face is between his cheeks doing that filthy, dirty, too good for words thing to him? Does it matter who?

  
It’s his mother or his father. His siblings are pinning his arms, both of them kissing him now. Claire's breast is soft on his shoulder. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on hate.  
Hating them individually. Hating them as a group. Wishing he could burn down this house with all of them in it. Wishing they would cut him, stab him, hurt and kill him instead of this. This ruthless, slow, careful, tender licking, kissing, pawing him open to delve deeper.

His brain kicks in enough to register that there's no facial hair, a thin jaw, the sweep of hair over his skin. It’s his mother. His pretty, sweet, kind mother is licking his asshole. She’s straining to get deeper inside of him. His father’s massive hands are helping to hold Sam open.

“God, no.”

Claire swallows the words. Sam knows it’s her at his mouth because Dean’s stubble scrapes the back of his neck, across his shoulder, down his spine. If there was any more fight in him, it abandons his body in a final loud, labored sigh - like the spirit of a dead man being released.

Sam lays perfectly still and lets them work their darkness. His father takes over, a surprisingly soft brush of his beard over Sam’s most sensitive skin as his tongue pries rough and urgent, joined by a finger on either side - pulling Sam apart like an orange to be shared.

Mary is at Sam's feet now, massaging his soles, cooing and telling him he’s doing so good.

“Yeah, you are,” Dean echos.

His mouth is over Sam’s, smiling as he combs his fingers through Sam’s hair, blunt fingernails scraping on his scalp. The others move and swell and dance over him like seaweed underwater, floating, taking, giving, preparing him for the ritual sacrifice. But it’s Dean who lays face to face with Sam, whispering words of wisdom that prepare his soul.

“I always wanted this with you. They wouldn’t let me have you. I missed you so bad, little brother. You don’t know. I just fucking…”

He grips the back of Sam’s skull, presses their faces together in what - under other circumstances - might be an ordinary hug. But it's not ordinary when their father is aligning himself to enter. Sam bucks against the too big spike trying to violate him.

“No, Dad,” Claire says. “Let Dean first.”

They shift over him and Dean pecks each cheek of Sam’s ass. He gives a mild smack before holding himself up with one hand and sliding his cock into place.

“You feel that? Feel how bad I want you. Always fucking wanted you, Sammy.” Dean stops for a moment and the warmth of his belly withdraws from Sam’s back. “Who’s got the lube? Dad, you were going to fuck him without lube, you maniac?”

“We opened him up.”

“Claire.” Dean commands.

Their sister stands and her soft footsteps recede on the tile.

“Mom, kiss him.”

Mary’s breath is thick with Sam’s scent, but he doesn’t resist. Dean is rubbing his shoulders. John’s huge hands trace down his right arm. When Claire returns with the lube, there’s a squelching sound. Otherwise, the hall is full of silence and hands and a thousand kisses as Dean finds his entry point, snaps his hips and enters in one fierce thrust.

Sam shouts as flames consume his entire nervous system.

“You’re all right. Come on. You’re a big boy,” Dean says, but doesn’t move.

He hovers with the tip of his dick in Sam’s hole. Massaging his cheeks, the base of his back. All of them soothing him like a startled horse. After a few moments, Sam’s hips rise. He pushes back for more.

It hurts, Dean slow press deeper. The stretch and burn blends with an inexplicable hardy bearable sweetness. Dean drives deeper, forcing a low groan from between Sam’s lips.

“That’s it, buddy. Let me in.”

By the time Dean's sweaty stomach is flush with Sam’s back, his balls locked against Sam's taint, the others have moved aside, surrendering the moment to the heaving pile of brotherly love.

“You good?” Dean asks, hooking an arm around Sam’s chest.

The only answer he receives is panting.

“What do you need, Sam? Do you want me to stop?”

Now, he asks - when Sam needs the opposite. Needs Dean to fuck him. Like he’s never needed anything in his life. Needs his brother to hurt him and heal him. But none of this is clear enough in Sam’s mind to be formed into words. All he can manage is to wrap an arm back around Dean’s thigh and shake his head.

“You want it?”

Sam nods.

"Atta boy."

Dean chuckles, kisses his cheek and shifts back far enough that Sam fears he’ll leave. That Dean will have broken him down this far just to abandon him again.  
But his brother gets onto his knees and pulls Sam back and up onto all fours. Head lolled down to the floor. Elbows locked, ass spread. Dean replenishes his supply of lube before returning again, this time slower, but only at first. Gradually picking up speed and depth until the world resounds with the wet slap of flesh on flesh.

Sam shakes his head to remove a drop of sweat and he catches the silhouette of the others. Claire, on her knees sucking their father while he holds Mary in his arm, kissing her deeply.

“Fuck.” Sam nearly swoons at the swift shot of heat up his spine.

“That’s it, Sammy. Let it take you.”

Pure, unabashed sexual energy like he’s never felt surges through Sam's body as Dean changes his angle and brushes over his prostate. Sweeping back and forth over and again while Sam ascends into a longer, harder orgasm than he knew was humanly possible. Time, place, perspective, identity vanish and leave behind only pleasure.

Only pure, unadulterated, holy bliss.


	5. Chapter 5

While Eileen unlatches and carefully pulls little Christopher, still sleeping from his rear-facing car seat, Caleb has already freed himself from his booster seat. He meets Sam on the sidewalk, bouncing on his four-year-old toes and grinning like a cartoon character.

Sam swoops his son into his arms and onto his shoulders, bounding up his parents’ walkway to the front door. He’ll return for the presents once Eileen and the kids are inside. 

The little monkey reaches down to ring the doorbell and whines when Sam gets to it first. Just as quickly, his spirits are rejuvenated by the sight of his Gammy opening the door, arms already wide for them both. Sam practically has to squat to enter the house with Caleb head an extra foot about his own, but they manage, with Eileen and Baby Chris bringing up the rear.

As soon as they enter the warm house, filled with its aroma of baking goose and cranberry sauce (Sam smells what he’s most excited to eat), those gathered erupt in a collective cry of excitement. Dean’s youngest, Andrea runs over and clasps herself onto Sam’s leg like a baby koala bear.  
Everyone’s there, of course: Dean’s wife Cassie, their brood, Claire and her (apparently on-again) girlfriend, Rosie, John wrestling with the fireplace. Dean is seated on the sofa with a beer. He smirks up at his brother and points at his nephew. 

“Send that boy over here.”

Sam doesn’t hesitate. He puts Caleb on his feet on the floor, pats his little rump and the kid pads over to his uncle. Dean pretends to groan and strain as he pulls the boy onto his lap. 

“What are you feeding this kid?”

Dean’s wide hand covers Caleb’s chest as he leans close and whispers in his ear. Sam is so busy catching up with his sister that he barely notices when his son nods and Dean carries him away to another, more private part of the house.


End file.
